


slide right in (to my dms)

by brawlite



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Instagram, M/M, Pre-Relationship, also probably matchmaker max mayfield, but are they bad if they actually work?, gym rat billy hargrove, instagram queen billy hargrove, mostly crack i think, steve harrington's bad pickup lines, very exceedingly patient sister max mayfield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 13:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16041677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: Billy gets theworstbest pickup line in a DM on Instagram.





	slide right in (to my dms)

**Author's Note:**

> short and sweet and stupid

“Your instagram is, like, a full-on tragedy,” Max tells him. She’s sitting on his couch, drinking a green smoothie that smells like it has too much pineapple in it, and is flicking through Billy’s phone because she has _zero_ sense of personal boundaries.

“Your face is a full-on tragedy, but you don’t see me complaining about having to look at it, do you?”

“What, you don’t like my new highlighter?”

“There _is_ such a thing as _too much highlight_ ,” Billy says. “You look like a unicorn jizzed all over your face.”

“First of all: _gross_. Second of all: there is _literally_ no such thing as too much highlight,” Max says. “I look awesome and you’re just jealous because you can’t wear makeup because you’re a dude.”

Joke’s on her; Billy _does_ occasionally dab on some highlighter or bronzer, but, like, he keeps that shit hidden _way_ at the bottom of his sock drawer. He has to look _good_ alright?

“I have, like, ten thousand followers who think my face looks _just_ _fine_ , you know that, right?”

“Yeah, but they’re only following you because they’re _thirsty_. So that doesn’t really _count_.”

“That’s like, the _whole_ point of instagram, Maxine.”

Billy slouches down into the chair next to the couch and just _watches_ her scrolling through his feed, through his activity. Her smoothie makes an awful noise as she slurps up the last of it through a bright pink plastic straw.

Today, she’s wearing torn-up overalls and some yellow crop-top that looks thrifted because it probably _was_. It doesn’t look _bad_ , honestly. She’s kind of stylish, for a pipsqueak, even though she has only a handful of followers. Billy would take a picture of her and caption it, ‘ _tips on_ _how 2 get rid of annoying sisters?’_ for his story, but she currently has his phone, so he just has to _think_ it, which is annoying, too.

Also, he’d probably get a lot of creeps commenting shit he doesn’t want to read or ever think about. So.

“Yikes -- do you _ever_ check your messages?”

No. _Why_ would he check his messages?

“Okay, you’re done, give it back,” Billy says.

It was _fun_ until it wasn’t, which is just sort of _life_ , he’s figuring out.

“Wow. Like, I _shouldn't_ be surprised, considering the _shit_ you post, but I am. Wow. These are -- something,” Max says, in between _laughs_.

The _shit_ he posts is just: pictures of Billy going to the gym, pictures of Billy _at_ the gym, and pictures of Billy after going to the gym. (And the occasional açaí bowl with homemade granola, because whatever, he likes to take pictures of his food, okay? So _sue_ him.)

 _Obviously_ Billy gets a lot of DM’s with people being thirsty at him, but they’re _boring_. It’s like, the usual shit, over and over and over again.

_You’d look pretty with my dick in your mouth,_

_i want 2 cum all over ur abs_

_Want to meet up, stud? ;)_

Shit like that.

Billy can find a hookup in the club or at the gym; he doesn’t _need_ instagram to make it happen. It’s like adding a whole other unnecessary _and_ cumbersome step to the process. Because, like, who the hell wants to deal with _typing_ and _thinking_ and _waiting_ and _meeting up_ when you just want to get off? No one, that’s who.

Also.

Billy’s like, an _eleven_. And the people who message him? They _think_ they’re at least eights or nines, but they’re _not_ , at _all_ , so.

So, he usually leaves his DM’s unread, unless he’s in need of a good laugh, which he hasn’t been for a while.

Max scrolls for a little while, until she stops, brow furrowing. She taps, squints down at the screen, taps, scrolls, taps some more.

“Holy shit, this guy is kinda _cute_ actually.”

 _Tap, tap tap_.

 _Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap_.

He hopes she’s not _liking_ all of this dude’s pictures.

“He’s not.” Billy doesn’t even need to _look_ to see that the guy isn’t cute. _No one_ on instagram is cute, because the whole thing is fake as hell. Filters and facetune and fucking _everything else._ Billy’s abs look better in Clarendon, tbh.

“I mean, he’s indie as _shit_ in, like, that _stupid_ pretentious way you _love_ , but he’s cute. _And_ ,” Max says, like it’s the most important thing she’s said all day, which it’s _not_ , because the most important thing she said all day was: _Let’s get porkbelly tacos for lunch_ , but fine, “ _and_ ,” she says, “his message was, like, a whole _vibe_.”

“Okay,” Billy says, rolling his eyes. He’ll _play_ , but only because maybe she’ll shut up about it once she thinks she’s actually got his attention. “Hit me. What’d he say?”

“ _You look like you’re gonna ruin my life_.”

Well _shit_.

That’s actually pretty _good_.

It _is_ a whole ass vibe, and Billy admires that kind of dedication.

He also admires that kind of fortune-teller accurate prediction, because Billy is _absolutely_ the kind of person who will ruin someone’s life, and he’ll have fun doing it, too. It’s like this guy already _knows_ him.

“-- How indie are his pictures?”

“The first picture on his profile is like, a bad picture of italian ice in a freezer at, I dunno, probably a 7-11? The quality is, like, circa 1997, maybe.”

Oh _no_.

It’s like Billy’s kinda already in _love_.

\--

There’s another equally bad picture on this guy’s profile where he’s holding a tiny tube of toothpaste in his palm, like one of those _travel size_ things, fingers stupid long, nearly stretching out of the square frame. He’s pale, kinda, and his fingers are so long and spindly they kinda look _alien_. It’s not a good look. It’s not a good _picture_.

It’s still got, like, thousands of likes, because who _is_ this guy, even?

\--

Billy can’t stop thinking about those _hands_.

Those _fingers_.

\--

 _Fuck_.

\--

He’s cute, too. Once you scroll past countless terrible pictures of mundane shit, or shitty pictures of this guy’s equally indie friends. Occasionally there’s something right smack dab between a picture of a washing machine and what’s _maybe_ closeup of a lava lamp -- Billy’s not sure -- but it’s always _glaring_. Like, the pictures of this guy are equally _bad_ , but --

But he’s so goddamn _hot_ that it doesn’t even _matter_. So fucking _pretty_.

Like, Billy wold look at them for _hours_ if he let himself.

\--

 _You look like you’re gonna ruin my life_ , Billy thinks, like a mantra, over his morning protein shake, as he bench-presses at the gym, as he gets green-tea froyo with too many oreos at eleven at night because it’s a cheat day.

He thinks it as he goes to bed, too, fingers curling around his cock, because he’s not an _idiot._

And, like.

People have told Billy a _lot_ of romantic shit over the years to get in his pants. Heaps of it. His eyes are like the ocean, his body’s like a Greek god, his dick tastes sweet like _candy_. And -- okay, all of it’s _right_ , obviously -- like, it’s factually _accurate_ \-- but Billy doesn’t need people wasting his time telling him shit he already _knows_.

 _You look like you’re gonna ruin my life_ is just -- it’s so perfect, so brazen, so presumptuous, so fucking _slutty_ \-- Billy doesn’t even know what to _do_ with it.

Other than idly fantasize while he’s doing some cool-down yoga about all the ways he _could_ ruin this pretty boy.

\--

“How’s _Steve_?” Max asks.

“Who the hell is _Steve_?”

“Uh, Steve? The guy from instagram?”

Billy curls his lip. “ _Who_?”

“Mr. _You’re gonna ruin my life_? Oh my god, Billy, please tell me you _talked_ to him.” She _knows_ he didn’t. Billy can see it in her eyes. Can hear it in her tone.

“Why would I _talk_ to him?” Billy asks, incredulous. “Also, how do you know his _name_? He doesn’t have anything listed on there.”

Not like he _looked_.

“I did some light internet stalking,” Max says, with a wave of her hand, like it’s _nothing_. Like she didn’t get one of her dweeb friends to figure out this guy’s fucking _address_. “ _Anyway_ , you’re like, perfect for each other, so you gotta talk. Here, give me your phone.”

Billy doesn’t give her his phone. He’s not about that. He’s not thirsty enough to message someone back on instagram -- that’s like, the epitome of bottom of the barrel. He’s not _desperate_. He’s a classy guy who takes classy pictures of his sweaty abs, who jacks off to fantasies about ruining some indie kid on instagram.

He _does_ leave his phone accidentally unattended a couple hours later, and sure enough, when he picks it up again after Max leaves, there’s already a new message waiting for him.

It doesn’t say anything; it’s just a phone number.

Billy’s message before that?

_then let me_

Which is _stupid,_ and he’s gonna _kill_ Max, but -- but it got him a phone number, so Billy _doesn’t_ throw Max’s Christmas present -- socks -- directly into the trash.

 _Yet_ , anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> stupidly inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o0wnquXGuSY) buzzfeed video i found myself watching about trying to hook up with people via instagram and some good/bad pickup lines to leave in dms
> 
> thank you to [lipgallagher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipgallagher/pseuds/lipgallagher) for listening to me talk about stupid au premises
> 
> you can catch me on [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined


End file.
